


Love in the Time of COVID: Battlestar Edition

by sweetasmaple



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Battlestar Galactica References, COVID-19, Getting Together, Lockdown 2020, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pandemics, social distancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24610636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetasmaple/pseuds/sweetasmaple
Summary: I’m not expecting him to reply. It’s almost 11, and we don’t text. The last messages I have from him are from almost a year ago, organizing rides up to Adam’s parents’ cabin for the weekend. Funny to think that there was a time when Even was the person I texted most.I’m surprised to hear my phone buzzing, not a few moments after hitting send.“Isak, are you watching Battlestar Galactica without me?”---Isak and Even find each other again during the COVID-19 lockdown, one Battlestar Galactica episode at a time.
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Comments: 87
Kudos: 164





	1. Isak

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what this is. I started rewatching Battlestar Galactica a few weeks ago, and it made think about the boy I was in love with when I first watched it, and then this happened. 
> 
> I’m not sure that there’s much of an overlap between Battlestar Galactica fans and Skam fans, but if that’s you and you’re reading this, I see you. If it’s not, I promise you don’t really need to know anything about Battlestar Galactica to understand this fic. There are a few gratuitous references that won’t make any sense, but they’re not at all important to the plot. 
> 
> This fic is basically complete. I’ll be uploading every few days until it’s done.

_**It was inevitable: Battlestar Galactica always reminded him of unrequited love.** _

=||=

**ISAK**

_“In case you’re wondering, Gaius Baltar is still a little bitch.”_

I regret sending the text almost immediately. I’m just a little drunk is all, and a little stoned, and my judgement is not what it should be. 

Not that the buzz is solely to blame. My decision making, in general, has been kind of off lately. I see it in the reckless way I’ve been posting Instagram story after Instagram story, spurred on by any inane idea that pops into my head. And in the way I’ve been spamming all of the group chats I’m part of, and in the long, stream-of-consciousness texts I’ve been sending to Jonas. I have become a tiny, lonely man, screaming into the void, desperately hoping someone will answer me. The usual veneer of cool composure I hide myself behind has crumbled.

The drinking, in and of itself, was not my wisest decision. It’s a Wednesday night, and even though I don’t need to physically show up to my job tomorrow, I do need to check in. To at least put in a bare minimum of effort and broadcast some semblance of productivity over Slack. I’m not blackout, but I know I’m in for a rough morning. 

It was somewhere around the fourth beer that I decided rewatching _Battlestar Galactica_ would be a good idea. It clearly was not, given the regrettable text I’ve just sent.

It’s just that the weather’s officially turned. We’ve had our first real, hot days of summer this week. The air is soft and sultry and heavy with possibility. Since I was a kid, I’ve always been moved by this time of year, when you can finally slip outside without the burden of a coat or hat or the danger of frostbite. You could stay out all night in just your t-shirt. Anything could happen. 

Except this year, we’re all bloody stuck inside. There are no late night parties by the water, no hot, nameless strangers I can stick my tongue into, no friends turning up with unexpected joints to share.

I just wanted to get lost in something. That’s why I love sci-fi. The best of it transports you to another place and time, to a world where the normal rules don’t apply and anything can happen. It’s a bit like summer, really.

The problem with this stage of the quarantine is that I’ve long since mined all of the good content available to me. In the absence of something new, I’ve been thinking about revisiting the old. And so, inevitably, I’ve arrived back at _Battlestar Galactica_. 

It’s one of the best, really. One of the shows I was most riveted by, completely lost in the possibilities of. The only problem is the way I feel about the show is inextricably linked to the feelings I have about Even. 

We watched it together, during that year I was almost completely consumed by him. I don’t even know where my feelings about the show as its own piece of art end and that deep longing I felt for him begins. 

We used to hang out a lot. We’d lie in each other’s beds, watch movies and TV shows, and enjoy a comfortable companionship I’ve rarely felt with anyone else. We’d let the movie play, then hit pause, slip outside for a joint and look up at the stars, and get lost in conversations about outer space or art or music. 

I’m embarrassed to think about the careful showers I always used to take before meeting up with him. Of my desire to be clean and ready, just in case. It almost never worked out the way I wanted it to, but just being around him at all was almost enough. 

I wasn’t completely delusional. It did happen sometimes. But never the way I wanted it to. Never sober. Never on those movie nights, when we’d lie close enough together that I could feel the body heat coming off of him and almost taste him in my mouth. 

But if we were both drunk enough, if the party had been good and I’d found myself in his orbit at the right time of night, he’d take me home. And those nights would make it all feel like it was almost worth it. I’d get lost in him, in the way we came together, and I swear he would too. He’d let me fall asleep in his bed, and he’d spend the night holding me, and then we’d wake up the next morning and act as if nothing had changed. We’d still just be friends, and then he’d invite me over a few days later and my desperate hope would be reawakened all over again. 

He ended it all with a text, right before Christmas. I don’t remember what he wrote exactly. Something to the effect of _“I don’t think we should do this anymore. You’re too good of a friend and I don’t want to screw that up.”_

Funny thing, really, because we stopped being friends after he sent that text as well. 

I don’t remember what I replied. I know I cried all day before I finally managed to write something back. He’d asked if I wanted to meet up to talk about it, but I declined. I didn’t want to meet up with him. I had no interest in subjecting myself to the embarrassment of hearing the reasons why he didn’t want me.

I stopped asking him to hang out after that. I realized I’d been the one doing that most of the time, between the two of us, and I just didn’t want to anymore. And he didn’t reach out to me. So we just stopped. 

I met Karl a few months after. I’m ashamed to say that I felt like I’d won, the first time I brought Karl to a party and Even was there, alone. Jonas told me Even looked rattled that night, seeing me with someone else on my arm. I’m not sure if that’s true. I was doing my best to ignore him. 

And then Even left. He moved to London for the summer and stayed for a semester abroad. And when he came back, he had Anna, and I still had Karl, and that was that. 

Only it wasn’t. Not really. Because six years later, I still can’t forget about him. Four years with Karl, sweet, simple, fit Karl, who for a time loved me enough to make me love myself, and it’s Even’s memory that still burns brightest in my mind. 

I still see him sometimes. We’re still friends, in a way. We see each other at parties and catch up on how our lives are going. I let myself hug him, even, and indulge for the briefest moment in the sweet tenderness for him I’ve never quite been able to shake. But we don’t keep up beyond that. We don’t meet up for beers or go to movies or hang out one on one. And we certainly don’t text. 

Except for tonight, apparently. 

It only took a few minutes of the first episode to get me thinking about him. Just a few minutes of watching smarmy, self-interested Gaius Baltar grapple with Head Six haunting him, and I was itching to pick up the phone. We spent a lot of time ripping on Gaius together, when we first watched the show.

I’ve been making the old jokes again to myself tonight as I watch. Or maybe I’ve been making them to my very own Head Even. I don’t know. I’m pretty drunk. 

So I ended up texting him. And I’m feeling pretty stupid about the whole thing. I don’t normally let myself indulge in these feelings. I should have let go of them years ago. Score one point for booze, I guess.

 _“In case you’re wondering, Gaius Baltar is still a little bitch.”_

I can almost imagine Even’s reply. He’d try and keep a straight face and tell me that I shouldn’t call him that. That ’little bitch’ is sexist, and patriarchal, and probably a little bit homophobic. But he’d secretly agree, because Gaius is the worst.

I’m not expecting him to reply. It’s almost 11, and we don’t text. The last messages I have from him are from almost a year ago, organizing rides up to Adam’s parents’ cabin for the weekend. Funny to think that there was a time when Even was the person I texted most. 

I’m surprised to hear my phone buzzing, not a few moments after hitting send. 

_“Isak, are you watching_ Battlestar Galactica _without me?”_

I can’t help the giddy laugh that escapes me when I read it. It’s an old joke. We made a pact that we’d watch every episode together, and we used to tease each other about having cheated. Not that either of us ever did. 

_“I would never,”_ I reply, like a fool. (I am a fool.) _“I believe that is a punishable offence.”_

 _“You owe me a six-pack.”_ His reply comes, almost immediately. _“And don’t call him a little bitch. It’s sexist.”_

I’m not sure what’s happening right now. Even just double texted me. I feel like I’m twenty again, desperate and elated all at once.

_“No way I owe you a six-pack. There’s def a statute of limitations on that shit.”_

_“What episode are you on?”_

_“Just midway through the second, actually.”_

_“I see you couldn’t live with the guilt of betraying me for long.”_

I don’t know what to reply to that. Because there are a lot of reasons why I texted Even tonight, but that’s definitely not one of them. I hesitate. I don’t want the conversation to die, but I’m at a loss as to how to keep it going. 

Even does it for me, though. And I feel shivers down my spine when I read what he’s said.

_“If you’re up for restarting that episode, we could maybe watch it together?”_


	2. Even

**EVEN**

I’m bored out of my mind when I hear my phone go off. I’ve been bored all night. Hell, I think I’ve been bored for the past two months.

I wish I’d known the world was about to go into lockdown before I decided to move back in with my parents. It seemed like a great decision at the time. Breaking up with Anna had thrown my whole life into chaos. My parents’ place offered me some stability while I figured it out again. Plus, rent in Oslo is expensive. It seemed like a great way to help me save up some cash.

It was fine for the first few months. Sure, it hurt my pride a bit to be in my late twenties and back under my parents’ roof. But it’s not like I don’t have any other friends still living at home. And I’m an adult now, and they treat me like one. I help out around the house when they need it, and I can come and go as I please. Or at least I could, until this novel coronavirus exploded onto the scene and started ruining everyone’s year. 

I love my parents. I really do. My mom is a sweetheart, and she’s fun. She likes to sit with a glass of wine and gossip with me about my life. And my father’s incredibly kind, and always armed with a bad joke for any situation. But they’re still my parents, and spending 24 hours a day with them, seven days a week, for the past two and half months has done my head in a bit. I think they’re sick of me, too. They’d been comfortable empty nesters for the better part of a decade before I came plodding back in. I’m sure they’d love to be able to have some privacy, without worrying about their grown, adult son lurking around.

So I’ve been locking myself up in my room a lot, spending too much time wallowing around in my old loft bed, masturbating and watching movies and dying for some weed. Too bad my mom would disapprove. It’s bad for my mental health, anyway. 

At least I’m working, and have a decent home office set up in my parents’ study. Turns out being a freelance graphic designer is pretty much the same, whether the world is on lockdown or not. I’m incredibly grateful the work hasn’t dried up yet. I don’t know what I would do with myself if it did. Taking walks around the block with my dad can only fill up so much of my time.

Tonight’s been a hard one. I’ve been feeling a little down. I hope I’m not slipping into a bout of depression. It could go either way, honestly, at this point. I’ve been thinking about my life choices a lot, and it’s been seeming abundantly clear that they’ve mostly been bad. 

So I’m relieved when I hear my phone go off. Even an inane meme from Mutta would be welcome if it managed to distract me from my thoughts for a few minutes.

I can’t help the fizz of energy that goes through me when I see what’s on my phone. Isak’s texted me. Isak never texts me.

_“In case you’re wondering, Gaius Baltar is still a little bitch.”_

What a fucking perfectly Isak thing to say. Out of the blue. Like there’s no weird tension between us at all. Maybe there isn’t. Maybe it’s all in my head. It’s not like my brain exactly has a track record for reliability. 

He probably hardly ever thinks about me. He’s probably just texting me tonight because he’s so bored out of mind by this whole quarantine situation that he’s willing to talk to anyone. It’s not like I haven’t been feeling the same way. I even messaged Sonja the other week, and I haven’t wanted to talk to her in years. Not my finest hour. I blame it on the fact that I’ve been spending entirely too much time in the same bed I had when I was a teenager.

Isak’s not Sonja, though. Isak, I’d be happy to talk to anytime, if he’d only be willing. But he’s not. He used to be, for a while, until I went and ruined things between us. For a brief time, I got to have him in my life, making everything seem a little bit less bad.

It was a mistake to think that I could have both. That I could have my friend, who made everything seem so calm when he was near, and have the pleasure of his body pressed up against mine as well. Sex always fucks things up for me. It’s too easy to fall into bed with someone. I like it too much. I like having someone be everything to me for that moment in time. It’s the parts that come after that I’ve always had trouble with.

I wish we’d talked about what we were doing, back then. I don’t know why he never brought it up. But I was glad he didn’t, at the time. I was afraid that if I let him get too close, he’d see what a mess I was and get scared away. I scared myself with my thoughts half of the time. How could he hear them and not be scared, too? I couldn’t give him more. I was barely hanging on to myself.

I thought I was saving us, when I told him I didn’t want to hook up anymore. But I managed to screw that up too. I don’t know why I thought doing it through text would be a good idea. I’m just a coward, I guess. I wish I’d done it in person. Maybe then I could have explained better. Maybe then he’d still be my friend. 

It still hurts to see him, a little bit. To watch him laugh with Mahdi and Jonas, and throw an arm around their shoulders without even thinking about it. He only does that with me these days when he’s drunk. I know I shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do when it happens. I try not to let myself, but I can’t help it. 

So of course I reply. How could I not?

 _“Isak, are you watching_ Battlestar Galactica _without me?”_

What a stupid thing to write. It’s been six years. He does all kinds of things without me, all the time.

He writes me back, anyway. And he’s kind enough to play along. 

I don’t know why I suggest watching the show together. Desperation maybe, or loneliness. 

I’m surprised when he agrees, and I try to stay calm as I search around online for a stream. I’m not sure how long he’ll be willing to keep this up. But Isak’s appeared like a gift on this dark night, and I don’t want to let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another chapter up!  
> Thanks to all of the lovely people who gave kudos or commented on the previous one.


	3. Isak

**ISAK**

I wasn’t wrong. The morning _is_ rough. I wake up late, still dead tired, and desperately thirsty. Good thing I only have to drag my ass across my apartment to be ready for work. A big glass of water helps. Coffee does too. It’s not the worst hangover I’ve had.

I take my morning call in my sweatpants. At least I showered, and put on a decent button up shirt. That’s the beauty of Zoom. No one can see what’s going on from the chest down. 

I feel better by lunchtime, once I have a solid meal in my stomach. I manage to clear the most pressing items on my to-do list by mid-afternoon, and figure the rest can wait until tomorrow, when my head’s a little less fuzzy. Things have definitely slowed down for me at work a bit lately, but I’m not complaining. We’re still funded through the end of next year. And pharma companies, even small startups like the one I work for, aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

The problem is, now that I’m mostly free for the rest of the day, my mind is starting to wander. Wander back to the weird blip in my existence that was last night. Honestly, I can’t believe I stayed up until 1 in the morning watching _Battlestar Galactica_ with Even fucking Bech Næsheim. 

I find myself pulling up his Facebook profile while I try to whittle away the rest of the workday. There’s not much there. A profile photo from three years ago, a few pics Anna uploaded and tagged him in. It leaves me strangely unsatisfied.

When the clock hits 5, I officially sign off from work. My button-up is feeling itchy, so I pull it off and fish out an old t-shirt to change into. Then I stare at the half-smoked joint from last night that’s still sitting in the ashtray on my windowsill. There’s a green Bic lighter sitting right next to it. I debate for a few moments before giving in and taking a couple puffs. Not too much. Just enough to put a new slant on the remains of the day. 

Everything feels soft. I watch clouds float lazily in the sky through my window as the late afternoon sun streams in and warms my face. I feel content for a moment. At peace. No work to do. No expectations of me for the rest of the day.

It doesn't take long before my mind works its way back to Even. They're nice thoughts at first, but being high makes me start to pick apart everything from last night. Makes my brain work it over from new angles. 

I spent most of the day feeling pretty good about the interaction, but now I’m worrying about how I came off. Did I seem too eager? I feel like I was texting him more than he was texting me. I definitely double texted him a few times. Maybe even triple texted. And I was drunk. Thinking about it sends a panicky feeling running through me, and the calmness from moments before dissolves away.

It makes me feel raw. I’m worried I exposed myself too much. That he could smell the desperation that still festers deep in my heart.

So I do what any idiot would do, and go back and read through all of our texts. I'm scared about what I'll find, but in the end, it’s a relief. I’m actually smiling by the time I’m done with it, and I chide my high brain for making me worry. I hate the way weed makes me paranoid, sometimes. 

What I find on my phone is a nice conversation. I stand by most of the jokes I made. The whole thing went surprisingly smooth. I didn’t know I still knew how to talk to Even, beyond a few pleasantries at a party once or twice a year. I’d long since written that off as collateral damage from my broken heart. 

I don’t mean to sound as dramatic as I do when I say that. I know we were never together. But I’m sure I was in love with him, at least a little bit. And because we never had a real relationship, I never got the chance to properly grieve it when it ended. I healed badly from the wound. There’s a lot of scar tissue. I thought that part of me would never be the same.

But last night, it felt like it was. We watched three episodes, back to back, texting the whole time, peanut gallering the action unfolding in front of us. We slid right back into our old conversation patterns. Even, criticizing the cinematography and art direction ( _“man, I really hate the design of the Cylon ships. Why do they have to put a face on them. It’s so obvious.”_ ), me picking apart tiny, pedantic plot points ( _“how is that they have the technology for FTL travel but can’t manufacture water? Like, they can make whole spaceships jump across space intact, but they can’t figure out H2O?”_ ).

I think being drunk may have actually helped. The walls I’ve put up around Even always dissolve in the face of alcohol. I should probably try and get over that. But that would mean finally getting over him. And honestly, as fucked up as it sounds, the deepest, truest part of my heart doesn’t want to.

I can feel it thrum through me now. The rush the possibility of Even has always given me. I’ve spent the last six years trying to quell it. But last night seems to have burst the dam open again.

I wish I hadn’t let myself get so caught up in him again so quickly. It was just so easy to talk to him, the way it always used to be, before it got hard. 

Part of me feels like I should cut my losses and seal up last night, so that it can remain a sweet, untainted memory. I should accept it for what it was. A fluke. A brief gift that let me relive some of the most tender days of my life.

But I’m a weak man. I try to keep myself guarded, but there are cracks in my defenses now. The void inside of me wants to be filled, is screaming at me to fill it. And maybe I just don't give a shit anymore.

_“Up for more Galactica tonight?”_

Yet again, I regret the text almost as soon as I send it. Weed makes me overthink everything. I know I’m setting myself up to get hurt. At least I’m not in too deep yet. And my heart has healed from these wounds before. The path to recovery has already been beaten. I have tools, now, to help me cope. Maybe it won’t be so bad this time. 

I don’t know what it means that he accepts my invitation. I tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything. It’s quarantine time. Everyone is finding new ways to fill their time. My heart flutters a bit, anyway. I try to tell it to calm the hell down. I won’t let this strange, tenuous new relationship I have with Even hurt me. I can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we keep on trucking with this.  
> Thanks again to anyone who has given kudos or comments. Each and every one is greatly appreciated.


	4. Even

**EVEN**

The truth is, I don’t even like _Battlestar Galactica_ that much. It’s not a bad show. I get what they were doing with the whole ’examination of post-9/11 society’ thing. And the writing is decent, most of the time. 

It’s just sci-fi isn’t really my genre. And the visuals aren’t great. And its religiosity kind of throws me off. And they never really get to the point. The intro keeps repeating over and over that the Cylons have a plan, but I still don’t really know what it was. It’s the kind of show that feels like it’s deep, but the more you pull back the layers, the more you discover there’s nothing there.

It was always more Isak’s thing. He loves sci-fi, or he used to, at least. I don’t really know anything about what he’s into now. Watching it together made him so happy, and I think that was what made me love the show, more than anything. Because it made my friend happy.

We made that pact, about never watching ahead without each other. It was completely unnecessary, at least for me. I was never going to watch it without him. And really, I never thought I was going to watch it again.

And yet here I am watching it, for the fifth day in a row. I suppose if anyone was going to get me to watch it again, it was going to be Isak. 

I don’t know what it means, what Isak and I have been doing. This almost hanging out. I try to tell myself it means nothing. 

I’m feeling a bit less down, though. That’s something, I suppose. I can’t tell if it’s just because I have something to occupy my thoughts, or if it’s because of Isak specifically. I know another person can’t fix me. (Honestly, I was such a mess when we were close. I know Isak can’t fix me.) But he always used to have this effect on me. All the giant, insurmountable things piling up on top of me always felt smaller when he was around. More manageable. Like they weren’t insurmountable at all. 

I don’t know if he’s still doing that for me, or if it’s just the memory of it that’s helping me now. Maybe it’s neither. It’s really just been nice to have someone other than my parents to talk to every night.

I tried not to let it get to me on Friday, when he had plans to game with Mahdi and Jonas and Adam, and wasn’t sure if he’d be able to link up with me. I told myself three nights in a row was too much to hope for. That it was fine, expected even, that he would have other plans. I almost believed myself.

It was late when he finally texted and asked if I was still up for it. 

_“Action stations_?” he’d written. I laughed out loud when I read his text.

I hope it didn’t sound too desperate when I said yes. Maybe I answered him too quickly. Was it obvious that I’d been lying around, waiting for him?

It’s just that I can’t help but yearn for the easiness Isak brings, now that I’ve had a taste of it again. I’d forgotten, actually, the way he used to make me feel. The longing to be close to him never went away, but the reasons why had sort of faded into the background. 

I’m embarrassed to say it’s memories of the sex that have stayed the closest. I don’t remember the details. I don’t remember what his dick looks like, or even if he’s circumcised or not. I remember I thought he had an incredibly sexy body, though. And I remember the heat of it. It still brings a flush to my cheeks. After all this time, Isak is still the best sex I’ve ever had.

I spent a long time lying to myself about that little nugget of truth. I couldn’t let it be true, when I was still with Anna. She was my partner. Sex with her was about so much more than just sex. It was about intimacy. About feeling close to each other. About strengthening our bond. But if I’m being really honest about it, it was pretty rare for me to be completely consumed by our lovemaking, to lose myself entirely in her body and think of nothing else but the pleasure we were sharing. I may be looking back at things through rose-coloured glasses, but I swear it was like that with Isak every time. 

I’m amazed now that I actually managed to give that up, willingly. I remember myself as not having much fortitude of will back then. I still don’t think I have much, and I was definitely worse when I was younger. 

Maybe I was able to stop the sex because I so rarely gave into being with Isak in the first place. I knew it was a bad idea. That I was risking one of my most important friendships by indulging in a passing fancy. I tried to resist it. I really did. And I managed to most of the time, at least when I was sober. 

The beginning of our relationship was different. We started sleeping together around the same time we started getting close. At first he was just a fun guy to hang around with, and a fun guy to fuck. There was a certain magic to him, and I just wanted to be around him, all the time. But then he started to mean something to me, something real, something concrete, and I knew the sex had to stop. 

I was really bad about sex back then. Careless. I slept around. It was easy. I felt so free, after years with Sonja, and it was just so nice to be able to indulge in any sweet body that came near. 

I would feel kind of shitty, after the fact. Not always, but sometimes. I know I hurt some people. Girls were harder. They tended to get attached more easily. That was why I thought I was safe for a while with Isak. But I pressed my luck for too long. 

It’s funny to think about how easy it used to be to get laid. I haven’t gotten laid in months. I mean I’m a twenty-nine year old man who lives with his parents. I don’t think anyone is surprised to hear I’m not getting laid very often. 

I did have a sexting thing going on with a girl I met on Tinder for a while, earlier on in the quarantine. It was pretty hot, actually. I’ve never been one for sexting. But then, I’d never been one for video calls either, before all this. I’ve always preferred things in person. 

I actually thought me and this girl might have had something real, for a minute there. The chemistry over the phone was really good. The orgasms we had together were good, too. Good enough that we decided to meet up in person, for a socially distant date. We went for a walk in the park. It was sort of nice. But I didn’t really feel anything, in real life. I don’t think she did either. The sexting stopped pretty soon after that. 

I’m worried that maybe I’ve got the same thing going on with Isak right now. Not the sex element, obviously. But I’m worried that the way our friendship is sort of working right now, for the first time in years, won’t be able to translate outside the phone. That he’ll be trapped forever in my messages. 

I don’t want that. Honestly, I have no idea what Isak is thinking right now. Why he’s decided that now is time to let me back into his life. I’m happy to take anything he’s willing to give me. But I want more. I want to talk to him. I want to see him. When all of this is over, I want to go spend time with him and be real friends with him again. I hope he’ll let me. 

For now, I'll just enjoy this, whatever it is. I'll spend every night linking up with him to watch shitty, old sci-fi with him over text, if he'll let me.

I hear my phone ping and glance down to read the latest message from him. 

_"Lol baltar is a shifty sonofabitch. Classic."_

He's quoting something that was just said on screen. It's a predictable thing for him to comment on. The familiarity of it sends warmth spreading through my belly, and laughter bubbling up out of my throat. 

I like the way Isak makes me laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. Isak

**ISAK**

It was Even’s idea to FaceTime. I probably never would have suggested it, so I’m glad he did. I feel like I’ve been pushing my luck with him already, asking for his company every night. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to realize he has better things to do than spend all his nights texting about an ancient TV show with a guy he rejected years ago. 

It was getting kind of hard to keep up with the pace of our conversation, though. The topics have been straying from the day’s episodes to other things. Socialism and Donald Trump and Elon Musk, the app idea Even has, this Twitter thread I read, what we made for dinner. I’ve been getting pretty creative, trying to make my groceries stretch. There’s a lot you can do with rice, if you’ve got an open mind. 

We’ve finished the first season by now, and are making headway into the second. We got sidetracked tonight after our first episode by a conversation about the silver linings of the pandemic. I have a lot of things to say about this topic. I’ve been furiously typing, trying to get them all out. I’ve already considered it, a few times, how much easier it would be to just pick up the phone and call him. 

I’m still panic-stricken when he asks if we can FaceTime. I have to run through a mental checklist in my head before agreeing. No, my apartment isn’t too messy. Yes, I look presentable. No, there are no physical clues about my sad desperation for him on my face. 

“Hi,” he says with a soft smile on his face when I pick up. 

He looks so handsome, even on the screen. The light in his room is soft, casting a warm, amber glow across his face. He’s topless, lying in bed, and his hair is sort of a mess. I want to run my hands through it. I want to run my hands all over him.

I thought maybe I was manufacturing it, the way the embers in my heart have been glowing warmer this past week as we talked. I thought maybe, after all this time, I would find the last remnants of what I still felt for him weren’t real. That they were just memories, and that present-day Even would turn out to be just a guy. That he was no one special, after all. 

I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed to discover that’s not the case. It only took one look at his face, at his warm smile, his sloping nose, his crinkling eyes for me to know. It’s definitely still real.

I think I’m in trouble. But then again, this is nothing new. I’ve burned for Even for as long as I’ve known him. I’ve just managed to ignore it for the past few years. To lie to myself about it. Maybe it’s a mistake to let myself get close to him again. It would be so easy for him to tear me apart. But maybe this time, if that happens, it will be thoroughly enough that there will be nothing left.

Sometimes I wish I had found the guts to call him out. Back then, or really any time in the last six years. I wish I could be brave enough to lay into him, to show him how much he hurt me. I want him to hurt as badly as I have. I want to see him deflate, watch him break, see him beg for me to forgive him. But then he would know. He would know how foolish I am. How stupid I was to hope he was ever interested in loving me the way I loved him.

So I try to hide all of that away. To play it cool. To make it seem like I’m totally unaffected by him. To be carefully detached. I’ve always been good at that. It’s the only way I’ve survived until now.

“Hey,” I say back to him. “Thanks for dressing up for me.”

“Sorry,” he says, looking down at his bare chest. He flushes a bit, as if he’s embarrassed. “It’s fucking hot in my house right now.” 

It was almost 30 degrees out today, so I guess I believe him. I try to tell myself that it’s fine. I hate the way seeing him half naked like that is getting to me. It’s distracting. I’m worried I’m going to lose my cool, and that’s the last thing I want. 

“Man, it was so hot out today,” I say, hoping that agreeing with him will allow us to move on to safer subjects. I don’t know why I had to mention his state of dress in the first place. “Too hot for Norway in May.”

“Do you really think the decreased traffic will make a difference?” he asks, picking up a thread of conversation from earlier.

“I mean, probably not. But it can’t hurt, can it? I just think this is a really great chance to rethink our car usage patterns in general.”

“I think it’s a good time to rethink a lot of things.” He sounds a little sad as he says it. It makes something wrench in my stomach.

“Like what?” I ask.

“I dunno. Like what I’m doing with my life." 

I’m not sure what to say to that, but he lets out a wry laugh and forges ahead before I can reply.

"But also, just in general. I mean, the pace of life was feeling so accelerated before. I felt like I was constantly trying to catch my breath.” He bites his lip a little and looks down, away from the screen. Away from me. “I just think it’s a chance to rethink a lot of things that we always took for granted. Like, ok, remember that episode where they were trying to reestablish the government? Zarek was talking about how their society has completely changed, but they still have lawyers filling out the same forms they always did. It sort of feels like that. Everything has changed, and we’re still forcing it to fit the old model. Pretty stupid, you know?”

“I can’t believe you’re agreeing with Tom Zarek,” I say, with a tease in my voice. I’m just trying to get him to smile. 

“I mean, Zarek is a shitty character, but he had a point.”

“He’s a terrorist, Even.”

“Oh man, don’t even get me started on how the only person to question the status quo on the show is framed as a terrorist. It completely delegitimizes looking beyond existing power structures. It’s weak sauce, man.” He’s got a playful tone in his voice now. I know he believes what he’s saying, but he’s also just saying it to get a rise out of me. So I laugh along with him. 

It’s so easy to laugh along with him. It helps to keep me in the moment, to not dwell too much on what’s happening between us, on how surreal this all is. Me and Even, back in this place again. Or maybe, me and Even, in someplace new. It’s easier if I don’t think about it, and just let it happen.

So I do. I let our conversation float easily between us for over an hour, and try to enjoy it for what it is and nothing more. But, still, it’s overwhelming to look into his eyes for too long. Distracting. I even lose my train of thought a couple of times because of it. I hope he doesn’t notice. 

But, maybe, part of me also wishes that he would. 


	6. Even

**EVEN**

I had forgotten how good looking Isak is. I mean, I’ve always known, objectively, that he’s a good looking guy. But I had forgotten how much I personally am moved by the way he looks. 

I guess it’s because I haven’t spent a lot of time looking at him in the past few years. I only see him at parties every now and then, and we don’t spend much time together at those. Not that I wouldn’t like to. It’s just that he never seems to want to be around me, and I try to respect that. So I always give him space and wait for him to come say hello, and try to keep my eyes away from him once we inevitably part ways. 

It’s better that way. I know my presence makes him uncomfortable (or at least it did, until a week ago). And there was always also Anna, who needed my attention. It wouldn’t have done to lose myself watching Isak from across the room. 

He’s so pretty, though. I spent an hour last night being very thoroughly reminded of that fact. I had nowhere to stare but his pretty green eyes or the curl of his cupid’s bow or the perfect little mole above his lip as we talked about everything and nothing over FaceTime. 

He seemed a little nervous as we talked. Bit his lip, looked down, lost his train of thought every now and then. I don’t know what that was about. I couldn’t help but find it adorable. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested FaceTiming. Maybe it was premature. I just needed to know how it felt to actually talk to him. Needed to know if it was real. If all the texting was leading somewhere, or if it's just some fleeting quarantine blip that would dissolve into thin air as soon as one of us was too busy to watch _Battlestar_ one night. 

I would have been fine with it, if that’s all this turned out to be. Having Isak back for even a minute is better than never having him back at all. But I needed to know where it was going, so I could prepare myself for it accordingly. It’s too hard to read people over text. I needed to see his face. 

I’m not sure what I found there. I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now, either. Honestly, I have no idea where this is going. Before last night, I just thought that I was maybe going to get my friend back. And now, well I’m just sitting here thinking over and over again about how pretty he is. 

I never let myself think about it too much before (except for when I was fucking him, I guess). But now I can’t help but think about it. My mind is full of it. 

I’ve been trying to get some work done today, but to be honest, I haven’t gotten through much. I’ve been too distracted thinking about Isak and his pretty eyes and his pretty lips and his soft, unruly waves that he kept running his fingers through as we talked. I even creeped him on Instagram and Facebook today, just to see his face again. 

It’s almost like I’m noticing his prettiness for the first time. I’m not. I’ve definitely noticed it before. But it _feels_ different somehow. Before, I tried not to notice. I didn’t want to be distracted from the fact that he was my friend. But now. Now I find I don’t want to pretend I haven’t seen it at all. 

It’s confusing. It’s making me question things. Like why I thought it was a good idea to be topless when I called him. The idea of putting a shirt on did occur to me. But I decided against it. I told myself it was because I was too hot, and it wouldn’t matter anyway because we were just two dudes. But now, I feel flushed at the thought, and the way Isak had pretended not to care and the way he was a bit flustered off and on as we spoke. And I think that maybe I did it on purpose, just to see how he would react. 

I think this is a dangerous road I’m going down. I’m trying to stop myself. If I want to be Isak’s friend, I can’t consider having sex with him. It all went so poorly, the last time around. 

The thing is, maybe I don’t want to be Isak’s friend. He’s so smart and he’s so funny and he understands me so well. And he’s so pretty, and kissing him and fucking him all used to feel so good. And I don’t know why I never really thought of this before. 

Except I do. I did think of it, quite a bit, when we first started hanging out. About how nice it all could be. But I wasn't in a place to be in a relationship back then. I was a mess and I didn’t want him anywhere near that, and I was sure he didn’t want to go near it anyway. It was better if we just stayed friends, and kept the sex casual. I thought we were on the same page about that. But I guess maybe we weren't.

Now, I can’t help but dwell on the way we caught each other’s eyes last night. The way we held each other’s gaze for just a beat too long. It makes my heart swell to think of it. 

This is bad. This is maybe really bad. What the fuck am I doing? I’m twenty-nine and I don’t know what I’m doing with my life and I live with my parents for, fuck’s sakes. I don’t have anything to offer Isak. I shouldn’t be thinking about this at all. 

But I can’t help it. Can’t help but let my mind wander. Can’t help but remember how good he looked last night, all cozy on his couch, the soft light from the lamp beside him making his waves glow golden, his green eyes trained on me. 

We talked and talked. He made me laugh, and he made me think, and he made me so excited about the things I was saying. Like they were worth something. Like what I said had merit. 

It’s been a minute since I felt like that. I really haven’t been feeling like I amount to much lately. It’s been hard, watching all my friends succeed while I feel stagnant. Like I’m regressing, even. My friends are doctors and lawyers now. They’re getting married. Mutta owns a house already and Yousef and Sana have a baby on the way. And I have nothing. 

Freelance is ok, but I’m kind of sick of it, to be honest. I love designing, but I hate running my own business. I worked at a couple of agencies a few years ago, but I hated that too. Hated seeing people who I thought were less talented than me get promoted ahead of me, because they were better at playing the corporate game. Hated when my designs didn’t get chosen to go ahead with because my boss thought they were too risky. 

I thought going out on my own would be better. That I could call my own shots and not have to play at bullshit office politics. I’m not really cut out for that kind of thing. I can’t pretend like design is the most important thing in the world, just to get ahead. I like the work. I think it’s a useful communication tool. But we’re not saving lives, and I hate how everyone in the design world seems to have collectively agreed that the work we do is life or death. 

But the invoicing and the chasing after payments and the complicated taxes and the constant networking in search of new clients is wearing me down. It’s disheartening. I even started looking for a job, before all of this, which was a whole other form of disheartening. I was almost getting somewhere, but then everyone went on lockdown and no one was hiring anymore. I’m tired of it. Tired of the constant struggle, of feeling like I’m not getting anywhere. Of the dead ends at every turn. 

Talking to Isak for the past few days has been making me feel like there might be something brighter in my future for the first time in a while. It almost feels a bit like hope. And I’m scared, because I don’t want to let myself hope again only to be let down.

So I know I shouldn’t be thinking about how pretty Isak is. But it makes me feel giddy and happy and safe, and I can’t help but lean into the feeling and let the warmth of his smile settle around me. 

I’m in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday baby Isak! To celebrate, I've posted a chapter dedicated entirely to how pretty Event thinks you are.
> 
> \--
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone. And thanks for each and every person who reads, leaves a comment or gives kudos. It warms my heart.


	7. Isak

**ISAK**

We’re on a group Zoom call. It was Vilde’s idea. I wish the girls would stop suggesting this. It’s nice that they want to keep us all connected, but I find it overwhelming.

Our _Virtual Hangs_ WhatsApp chat started going off yesterday around noon. I had to put it on silent so I could get through my afternoon meetings without distraction. By the time I scanned through the messages, plans had already been made for a virtual Friday night cocktail hour. 

I hate these things. I really, really hate them. I hate sitting alone in my flat, swirling my lonely Scotch around in my lonely glass while I sit on my lonely couch and try to pretend I’m at a real party. 

There’s twelve of us on the call, and I think it’s about ten people too many. Only one person can talk at a time. If you’re not interested in what they’re saying, well I guess that’s your problem, because you can’t exactly find a quiet corner to chat with someone else in, can you. 

It wasn’t so bad, the first few times we did this. There was a novelty to it and everything was uncertain and everyone was experimenting with different technology to pass the time. But this is the fourth call like this we’ve done and I’m officially over it. I think I’ve been over since the Tiger King memes played out.

I don’t care about how Eva and Adam’s wedding planning is going (or not going, given the fact that their wedding may very well not be able to happen). I don’t care about Sana’s baby bump, or about the renovations on Mutta’s house. And ok, I admit, Magnus’ story about meeting up with that girl in a field to watch each other masturbate was pretty fucking entertaining, but I’m still just about done with this call. 

Even’s on it. There, in the bottom left corner of my laptop. Just a small cell in the big, happy, Brady Bunch collage my friends’ faces are making on screen. I try not to stare at him too much. At least no one can follow my line of sight. I try not to think too hard about how this call is eating into our _Battlestar Galactica_ time, either. 

I need another drink. Or a joint. I think I’ll roll myself a joint, actually. That will keep me busy for a few minutes at least. 

I stand up from my couch and get out my little weed box, and pull out my grinder and my papers and weed. I do it all on screen. I don’t care if my friends notice. Maybe some of them will disapprove about how blatant I’m being. But I sort of feel like pushing their buttons. They’re certainly pushing mine. 

I hear my phone buzz as I start busting up my weed. A glance at the screen tells me it’s from Even. 

_“I'm incredibly jealous that you have weed.”_

I can’t help but smirk at him as I read it. He smirks back. It gives me a perverse delight to know that no one can tell our smirks are exclusively intended for each other.

“Yo, Isak, you gonna share that joint with your pals, or what?” Jonas asks, when he notices what I’m doing.

“Ya, sure bro. Come through,” I shoot back. I get the laughs I was hoping for. But I really do wish Jonas could come over. Or anyone, really. Living alone during shelter in place orders is hard. A virtual party does little to help make up for it.

My phone buzzes again with another text from Even. _“I’m tempted to take you up on that offer.”_ It makes my heart sing. God, I wish Even could just come over right now. 

I can’t help but think about one of the first times Even and I hung out. We’d sat on the window sill in his bedroom, passing a joint back and forth. I was so smitten with him already. I remember I kept staring at him, and catching him stare back. I had been so full of hope that day. I hate how the memory is a sad one, now.

I bring my laptop with me to the window so I can stay on the call while I get high. I only half pay attention to what’s being said. Mostly, I watch the smoke billow out from my mouth into the night air. I only take a few hits. I don’t want to get too stoned. 

I stay by the window for a while after I’ve stubbed out the joint. The fresh air feels nice as I listen to my friends’ voices through the tinny computer speaker. Vilde’s giving an update on how her job is going. She’s an event planner, so she’s basically pooched for the foreseeable future. It’s sad, I guess. I know she has worked her ass off to get where she is, and now it’s all dissolving in front of eyes. 

I’m not really listening, though. Mostly, I’m thinking about Even. About Even teasing me about coming over to my apartment. About how I’m basically ready to let him, quarantine or not. I know he wasn’t really serious. But my mind is still getting carried away.

 _“We still on for_ Galactica _after this?”_ I decide to text him. I need to reaffirm the tether running between us, to solidify that the relationship we’ve been rebuilding is real. 

Is it real? 

Maybe we’ll FaceTime again tonight. We’ve only done it the one time, but I want to do it again. I’ve been thinking about it every day, about how nice it was to hear his voice and see his eyes crinkle when he smiles. But I’ve been worried that asking him again would seem too needy. I feel like it might be ok to tonight, though. We’ve already been on one video call together, after all. 

His reply comes back quickly.

_“Absolutely. You think we can dip out from this soon?”_

I’ve been wondering the same thing. Wondering how much longer I need to stay on to be polite. We’ve been going for almost two hours at this point. I think most of the people on the call are already half in the bag, myself included. It could go on for hours more. 

I reply to Even with a single fingers-crossed emoji, because, ya, I really hope I can get off this call soon.

I hear Even speak up during the next lull in conversation.

“Guys, this has been really fun,” he starts. “But I’m feeling pretty beat, so I think I’m going to call it night. It was really nice to see everyone.”

I take my cue from him, and excuse myself as well, citing hunger and a desperate need for food. It’s not even a lie. The weed has convinced my brain that I am hungry. I laugh at the thought, a little nug of weed, calling up my brain, laying out its case for snacks. Shit, I’m high.

I disconnect the call, grab my phone, and trudge to the kitchen to find something to cram into my mouth.

I’m buzzed enough that I don’t think too much about FaceTiming Even while I wait for my leftover dinner to reheat in the microwave. Normally, I would waffle back and forth until I eventually talked myself out of it. But the Scotch and the joint are playing nice with each other in just the right way, and I feel brave. 

I just want to talk to him, want to see his face. I hope he picks up.

He does, after the first ring.

“Hi,” he says, a soft smile on his face.

“Hi,” I reply back, lost in the sea of his blue eyes.


	8. Even

**EVEN**

I’m interrupted while making lunch by the sound of a text. My phone chirps from where it sits on the kitchen counter across from me, and I wipe my hands on a tea towel before looking at the screen. It’s from Isak. Like always, my heart clenches when I see his name. 

_“Would you rather have sex with Ellen Tigh or Fat Apollo?”_

I can’t help the full body laugh his message pulls out of me.

_“Definitely Apollo, fat or not.”_

_“But that fat suit looks so brutal. Makes his face look like it’s swollen from bee stings or something.”_

_“Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure you get bad luck for seven years if you hook up with Ellen Tigh.”_

I know we’re just having a silly conversation, but I can’t help but feel a buzz in my stomach at the fact that we’re talking about hooking up, even if it is just in the hypothetical, about fictional TV characters. I wonder if he’s reading anything into the fact that I chose the man over the woman in this scenario. I wonder if I actually meant to imply anything by it.

He sends me a crying-laughing emoji in response to my text, and then I watch as he starts to write something else, stops, starts again. Eventually, a text comes through. Reading it sends my heart racing.

_“So... I was thinking about going for a walk later this afternoon. It’s so nice out. Would you maybe want to join me?”_

The request makes me giddy. Giddy like a teenager. It’s unprecedented, but I’m so glad he’s asked. I desperately want to see him in person. I’ve been craving it for a while.

I reply quickly in the affirmative, and we decide to meet up in a couple of hours, giving me enough time to finish eating, shower and change. 

I try not overthink things as I go about my business. But I can’t help but wonder what the afternoon will bring. It’s been ages since we’ve met up one on one like this. So long that it feels completely new. 

I paw through my closet, trying to pick out a shirt. Isak’s smile floats to the surface of my mind as I do. It tugs at me. My body reacts, like it knows what’s going to happen, even if my brain isn’t quite sure. 

I’m nervous. Nervous he’ll see through me, read the desires that have been slowly bubbling up inside of me over the past couple of weeks. I don’t want to come on too strong. Because it feels like a lot, even if these feelings are new. 

Or, I don’t know, maybe they’re not. Maybe I was too blind to see them for what they were, before now. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about our history. About what happened back then. My brain is unlocking it, bit by bit. How he used to flirt with me, and how it used to make me panic. How I wanted him anyways, and how it always made me feel stretched so thin, pulled taught between saying yes and saying no.

I remember feeling that way, but I don’t anymore. It’s different now. I wonder if he feels it too.

I wonder if we should talk. Clear the air or something. I’m not even sure what I would say. That I’m sorry, I guess. For hiding from him, for pretending I didn’t see. And I’d want to hear his side of things. Why he went so cold on me. How he could so easily flip the switch and act like I didn’t matter.

It hasn’t felt right to bring it up yet. It’s certainly not a conversation for text. I’ve learned my lesson there at least. And even FaceTime still leaves too much of a gap between us. I need to be able to see him. To read his body language. To have the reassurance that physicality provides. I know we probably shouldn’t touch each other, given this pandemic. But that’s a barrier I’d rather not spend too much time thinking about. 

I try to push all of those thoughts out of my mind as I grab my keys and head out the door. If there’s an opening to bring up our past, I will. But mostly, I just want to see Isak and enjoy being in his presence.

I hop on my bike and pedal towards his apartment building. My mind is mercifully blank as I ride. Moving feels good. Biking feels good. There’s joy in the way my bicycle acts as an extension of my body, perfectly designed to propel me forward.

It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, and there’s a soft breeze, and everything has become so green in the past few weeks. My mind is filled with nothing but the steady rhythm of my legs and the gentle memory of Isak’s easy smile. 

The roads are quiet, and I arrive at Isak’s building in good time. 

He’s already outside, waiting for me on the sidewalk, looking casual and collected and handsome. If I was taken by Isak’s looks the first time we FaceTimed, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. I want to scoop him up in my arms. I want to run my fingers through his hair and down his back. I want to take hold of his hand and never let go. I want, I want, I want. 

I settle for tapping my shoed foot against his own. A socially distant version of a fist bump. It’s not much, but it’s something. A physical touch that helps stitch up the persistent distance between us.

I lock up my bike and we head out down his street, walking vaguely in the direction of the park. It doesn’t matter where we end up, really. The destination is not the point today. 

My body thrums with energy as we meander. At the excitement of being close to him, the joy of hearing his laugh in person. I feel the warmth of it in my bones. We fall into an easy conversation, flitting from topic to topic. _Battlestar Galactica_ , TikTok memes, racism, the weather. Light topics and heavy ones. We push on each other’s opinions, but mostly agree, feel somber together at the state of the world, and still manage to make each other laugh, over and over.

Underneath this all, I am full of nerves. I itch to reach over and graze my fingers across Isak’s soft skin. The urge grows stronger and stronger as the afternoon wears down. But I don’t know if I’m allowed to touch him. And I keep thinking about the conversation we still haven’t had.

I walk him back to his building. We stand outside of it, facing each other, taking each other in. We’ve already made our goodbyes, but I can’t make myself turn around and go. I don’t want to leave him yet. I don’t know if I ever want to leave him. 

I let my eyes get lost in his green ones, feeling him stare right back at me. I feel that stare down in the bottom of my gut. It makes my breath hitch a little in my throat. I can almost feel myself moving in and tracing my thumb over his soft cheek. If it weren’t for this bloody virus, I might even do it. I desperately want to do it. 

Isak makes a gentle noise at the back of his throat, and the moment passes.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” he says, a soft smile on his lips. And then he turns and disappears through the front door of his building. 

Numbly, I unlock my bike and mount it, then kick off onto the pavement. My mind is filled with Isak’s green eyes and the curve of his lips as I pedal home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, they hung out in person! Getting close to the end, here.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Isak

**ISAK**

Even is in my apartment. Even is here, in person, in my apartment. It feels heavy and easy all at once.

Tonight started out like normal. We synched up by text to coordinate hitting play at the same time on the night’s episode. But Even’s internet was acting up. It does that every now and then, forcing him to text me and request that I hit pause while the video buffers on his screen. It’s annoying. With anyone else, all the interruption would have forced me to give up on this endeavour ages ago. But with Even, I find myself willing to wait.

His connection was terrible tonight, though. We could hardly make it through a few minutes at a time before his stream would freeze again. He even tried resetting his modem, which seemed to have fixed the problem for twenty minutes or so before it started right back up again. It was frustrating. I just wanted to enjoy our weird streaming pals relationship in peace. 

We texted back and forth, grumbling about his shit connection and cursing the internet gods. And then I foolishly wrote that it was too bad he couldn’t just come over to mine and watch it here. I didn’t really mean anything by it. Or I don’t know, maybe I did. Maybe I was sending a prayer into the night and hoping for a miracle. 

_“Maybe I could just do that?”_ he eventually wrote back, after a pause. I could almost hear him holding his breath through the text. 

I know we’re not _supposed_ to. It feels wrong, which is strange, because I used to have friends over all the time, like it was nothing. But now, everything’s changed. The only person besides me who’s been in my apartment over the past three month is Jonas, and that was only once, for twenty minutes.

But I just don’t care anymore. I’m sick of social distancing, sick of the deep loneliness that simmers in my belly, sick of pretending that anything less than _everything_ with Even will ever be enough. So I did what I’d been thinking about doing since our walk on Saturday, and told him to come over.

And now he’s here, standing in my front hall, pulling some beers out of his backpack.

“Didn’t want to come empty handed,” he says to me, offering a little smile and nervous shrug.

He seems so genuine in that moment, and looks so soft and so good in his t-shirt. The sleeves are rolled up a little, showing off his biceps. I’m overwhelmed by the urge to touch him, to greet him physically, to pull him into a hug or run my fingers down his arm. My body has been put on alert by his presence, like my cells can smell his cells, antennae up and reaching towards him. But I’m acutely aware of the rules of this pandemic, that we’re not supposed to touch. So I don’t.

Instead, I lead him through to my kitchen and watch as he sets the beers down on the counter and washes his hands at the sink.

“Do you want to wash the beers down? They’ve been in our house for a week, so should be safe, but we could give them a rinse.”

“It’s fine,” I reply. I’ve already let him into my place. The beers he brought shouldn't make a difference. I grab one for each of us and shove the rest into the fridge.

We sit at opposite ends of the couch, trying to maintain a safe distance between us. I’ve left the window open too, and have a fan on blowing the air around for good measure. The whole thing feels a little silly, like a charade. Are these measures necessary? Do they make any real difference?

I just desperately want him to come closer. He looks so tempting, and I want to wrap him up in my arms and feel his skin against mine. And if I’m reading his body language correctly, he wants the same thing.

I’ve been trying so hard not to get my hopes up, but I can’t escape the feeling that something is happening here. I’m scared I’m misreading the signals. It’s happened before. Back when we first started spending time with each other, I was sure we were on the same page about what we wanted. And it turned out I couldn’t have been more wrong.

But it feels different now. The way we've been with each these past few weeks, it feels obvious. If we didn't have history, I wouldn't be questioning it at all. It's all been so easy. No bullshit, no leaving each other on read, no game playing. Just us, talking, wanting to keep each other near. 

I can't stop replaying the way he looked at me when we parted ways the other day, after our walk. We were standing on the sidewalk outside of my building, staring at each other, and it really felt like he was going to kiss me. I wanted to kiss him, too. Almost did, before I forced myself to turn around and go.

I’m glad we didn’t kiss then. It gave me a chance to sit with it for a few days and marinate on whether I really want it to happen. And I do. I’m sure now. I wouldn’t have asked him into my home if I wasn’t. Maybe I’m setting myself up to get hurt again, but I don’t think I can spend the rest of my life wondering.

“Can I hit play?” I ask him, once we’ve settled into the couch and dimmed the lights a little.

“Go for it.”

It’s so much nicer to do this in person. To be able to just open my mouth and crack a joke about the shitty science on the show, or how Baltar is a weasel, or how much I love that _Xena, Warrior Princess_ is a Cylon. 

We finish the episode we started when Even was still at his house, and make our way through another. It takes longer than it should, because we keep pausing to pass commentary so we don't have to talk over any of the action on screen. It’s nice, the easy way we’re talking with each other. 

We draw closer to each other as we watch. I try to fight it at first, try to respect the _rules_. But it keeps happening, and I’m done trying to stop it. I’m sitting sideways on the couch now, and my leg is stretched out in front of me, putting my foot right in Even’s space. It might have been an accident at first, when his fingers brushed against the bare skin of my ankle. But it’s nothing but intentional now. The soft pads of his fingertips are drawing delicate circles over my skin. It feels both like a miracle and like the most natural thing in the world. 

Everything feels so different to how it used to, back when we first watched the show together and I so desperately wanted him to want me. To make a move. To kiss me. I want all those things again, but still, it’s different. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s that I’m older now, more sure of myself. Or maybe it’s Even, the way he’s been so open and eager over the past few weeks. I don’t know. But the hopelessness I used to feel sitting beside him, swathed in the blue light of a TV screen, is no longer present. Instead, it feels like I might get what I want.

The episode ends. It was a sad one, wrapping up with Kat dying in a hospital bed with Adama sitting beside her, keeping her company while she goes. It feels tragic, and it's really fucking embarrassing, because the whole thing gets to me more than it should, and I feel myself tearing up. 

I don't know why I'm like this. I never cry when it's appropriate, when life is hard and things are bad. Instead, tears always catch me off guard at the stupidest times.

"Well, that was sad," Even says, as the credits play.

I huff in agreement, and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and hope he doesn't look at me too closely. 

"Isak, are you crying?"

"Fuck off. No."

"Oh my god. You're totally crying!"

He grabs my hand then, and squeezes it. So I guess social distancing rules have been thrown out the window. I don’t care. I’m done with them. If I get to hold Even’s hand, I’m utterly and completely done with them.

The squeeze he gives my hand makes me look up at him. The way he's looking back at me is intense, gentle and full of emotion all at once. 

"Don't be embarrassed. Sorry, I'm not trying to make fun of you. I just… I can’t believe you’re crying."

“I know. I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re amazing.”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously, Isak. Do you have any idea how amazing I think you are?”

And then he pulls me closer and wraps his arm around me and runs his fingers through my hair, pushing it back off my face.

"Is this ok?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply. It's barely above a whisper. 

I'm all wrapped up in him, and my head's hiding in his neck, but I lean back enough to see his face. He’s looking back at me, intense as ever.

“I really, really like you, Isak.”

His hand is still on my head, settled against my cheek now. I feel his thumb graze gently against my skin, and I can’t help the way I lean into it. My belly is full of nerves. All I'm aware of is the tingle his fingertips leave on my skin and the heat of my desire for him. His eyes are on mine, searching, and it’s impossible to look away. 

He must find the answer he was looking for, because he’s pulling me closer, and I can feel his warm breath on his face. And then his lips are covering my own. It’s gentle and soft and his mouth feels like home. 

He pulls back after a moment and rests his forehead against my own. His breath comes out in soft pants, and I breathe it in, breathe little pieces of him inside of me. Like we’re melting together. Like everything has finally slotted into place.

"I like you so much," he says. And then he kisses me again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof! I did not mean to take a full week to post this chapter. But it needed a rewrite. Summer's here, and quarantine measures have been loosening up where I am, and it's been hard to find the time. I just wanted to make sure it came out right. I hope you all liked it and that the little delay was worth it.
> 
> On another note, I'd like to disclose that I am basically Isak, and definitely cried when Kat died and hoped my husband wouldn't notice. I don't even like Kat that much. She's generally super annoying on the show, but that convo she had with Adama really got to me.
> 
> Anyway, we're almost there! One more chapter to go!


	10. Even

**EVEN**

I wake up to light streaming in at an unfamiliar angle across my face. I feel dozy, and warm, and at peace. It takes a moment to remember why. Isak. I’m in Isak’s bed.

His warm body is inches away from my own. His head is turned away from me, and the naked expanse of his upper back is peeking invitingly out from the duvet. I desperately want to touch it, and I do.

He hums a little, and I scooch up next to him, hooking an arm around his waist to pull him into me. I nuzzle my nose into the back of his neck and breathe him in while I let my fingers trace gently across his chest. He smells so good. Warm and musty, and it fills my heart with something a lot like joy. 

“Morning,” I mumble, and I can’t resist the urge to plant kisses wherever my lips can reach. His shoulder, his jaw, that tender spot on the side of his neck. I could kiss him forever, and I don’t think it would ever be enough. 

My heart feels so full. I can’t believe I get to have this. It feels like everything I’ve ever wanted. It feels like everything has slotted into place. Isak is wrapped up in my arms, and it’s exactly where he was always supposed to be.

Last night feels like a dream. A perfect dream. But it was so real, and I have the proof stretched out naked in bed beside me. My body feels a little achy, in that delicious way that reminds me of all the things we did to each other. 

My memory hasn’t been playing tricks on me. Sex with Isak last night was everything I remembered it be. Hungry, and overwhelming, and beautiful. Unlike how it’s been with anyone else.

I think I understand why, now. It’s all fitting together. I felt it as I thrust into him, my legs tangled in the sheets. I was so close to saying it, as I kissed his neck and his cheeks and felt his breath pant against my face. I feel it now, with my legs wrapped around his own, bathed in yellow morning light. It bubbles so close to the surface. It takes almost all of my willpower not to let it spill out past my lips. But it’s too soon. I think it’s too soon. It all just happened last night, and it’s too soon to feel this way, and I don’t want to scare him. But maybe it’s not too soon, because I think this feeling’s always been there, and I’m only just now recognizing what it is. Only just now ready to feel it.

“Mm, you’re here,” he yawns out, and then he twists around so his face is angled towards my own. He looks shy and sleep soft, and I want to kiss the pink crease the pillowcase has made on his forehead. The soft waves of his hair are sticking out wildly in all directions, and his cheeks are a little flushed. He looks so beautiful, and I know it’s too soon, but I love him.

He leans in and presses his lips softly against my own. It’s just a gentle little thing, and we’ve both got morning breath, but it sets my belly fluttering and I think this is one of the nicest kisses I’ve ever had.

“What’s your plan for today?” he asks, voice still thick with sleep.

“Nothing too exciting. I’ve got to get some work done. I have to get something out to a client by Friday.”

“Ugh. I hate work,” he grumbles, and then hides his face in my neck, as if I could protect him from the drudgeries of adulthood. I hold him close and breath him in, trying to forget about the demands of the day for a moment longer.

“Me too,” I reply. “What’ve you got on?”

“Daily stand-up at 9. Meetings all afternoon.” He sounds delightfully grumpy as he says it, and I know I’m in deep, because I’m already imagining listening to him groan about his upcoming workday every day for the rest of my life.

I glance at the clock. It’s barely 7. We still have some time, then.

“Will you let me make you breakfast before you start your day?” I ask, hopefully. I know it’s bold, to ask for permission to paw through his fridge, to make him a meal in his own kitchen. But I’m bursting with how I’m feeling for him, and I need to do something productive with the energy running through me.

“Can’t we just stay in bed forever instead?”

“Sure we can,” I reply, and I plant a soft kiss on his forehead. 

We force ourselves out of the sheets sometime later, and Isak gives me a brief tour of his kitchen before stumbling towards the shower. I pull out eggs and butter and bread and poke around until I find a pot. I decide to keep it simple. Scrambled eggs and toast. I watch the knob of butter melt over the heat, and daydream about Isak’s naked body in the shower. I wonder if he’s finding any signs of our lovemaking as he washes.

I’m stirring the eggs vigorously when Isak emerges. On the heat, off the heat, back on the heat, so they don’t cook too fast. I throw in a dollop of cold sour cream right at the end, to stop them from overcooking and add a bit of creaminess. Crème fraîche would be better, but really, who has crème fraîche just lying around their fridge? I’m lucky he even has sour cream.

The bread is already toasted, waiting buttered on two plates. I partition the eggs out evenly between them, and then sprinkle each portion with the fresh chives I was delighted to find in Isak’s crisper drawer. Isak’s by his espresso machine, foaming up milk, when I’m done.

“Food’s ready,” I say, and then I can’t help but cross the kitchen and plant a kiss on his cheek. 

Breakfast is lovely. Isak compliments my eggs and talks with his mouth full, and I can’t help but feel I want this, every day.

It’s hard to leave, but I force myself to eventually, after kissing Isak senseless shortly before he’s due on his call. I remember his flushed cheeks as I cycle home, and I giggle to myself as I imagine how useless he probably is at his morning meeting. I know I would be. God, I’m grinning. I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.

I spend the morning trying to force myself to work, but mostly I’m lost in thoughts about Isak. How good he looks naked, how he makes me laugh, how lucky I feel that he’s in my life. 

I fish my phone out around lunchtime and text him. I don’t want him to doubt for even a second how I’m feeling.

_“I’ve been thinking about you all morning.”_

_“Me too.”_ His answer comes quickly, and it makes me beam.

_“Last night was amazing. You’re amazing.”_

_“You’re not regretting it?”_

Maybe he was going for sarcasm, but reading his text makes my heart sink. We talked about our history a bit last night, somewhere between taking off our shirts and taking off our underwear, wrapped around each other in Isak’s bed. Not much. But enough to sense how much hurt he had in him from before. How strongly he used to feel back then. It made my heart ache to hear it. I hate that I hurt him.

It’s ok, though. It makes me all the more determined to not hurt him again. We can talk about it more, later. Whenever it feels right. We have lots of time to learn to trust each other. We can clear the air bit by bit. I want to be gentle with Isak, and to take care of him, and make him feel safe.

So I hit the little call icon on my screen and let it ring.

“I’m not regretting anything,” I say when he picks up. 

“Ok,” comes his soft reply.

“I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy. You make me so happy, Isak.”

“Me too.”

“Can I come see you again tonight?”

“Only if you want to.”

“I definitely want to.”

“Ok then. Yes. Come.” 

I feel the urge to say it again, as we’re hanging up. It’s crazy, but it’s how I feel. I love him. I know I can’t say it yet, but that’s ok. I can love him silently for a while. 

I can feel him doubting this a little, and I guess I understand why, but I’ve never been more sure about anything. It’s me and Isak, all the way. All the hurt, all the longing to be around him, the way I’ve missed him so much for all these years, the past few weeks, they’ve all led us here, to this point. And I’m so, so sure my future is with Isak by my side. So I’ll do what I can to make him not doubt it, and then I’ll tell him the whole truth about how I feel.

Because I’m never letting Isak go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's all, folks!
> 
> This story just kind of poured out of me, and I'm happy I've been able to share it all with you. I've really had fun, especially since I could just watch more Battlestar Galactica whenever I needed a bit of inspo! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who came along on this journey with me. Extra thanks to those who gave kudos and left comments.
> 
> Take care.
> 
> PS - learn how to make scrambled eggs, y'all! (do it for Even) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUP7U5vTMM0


End file.
